


How JC Escaped from Planet Sequin and Got His Groove Back (The Fairytale Commentary Remix)

by mira (stellamira)



Category: Pop Music RPF, Popslash
Genre: Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellamira/pseuds/mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JC doesn't know where all that glitter comes from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How JC Escaped from Planet Sequin and Got His Groove Back (The Fairytale Commentary Remix)

Once upon a time there was a boy named JC. Well, the word "boy" would probably not be quite accurate here anymore, for the boy had over the years grown into a handsome young man and would indeed be very insulted if you called him a term that reminded him of the floppy hair and zits of his youth.

JC the handsome young man had had many a job in his life. He'd been a real, honest-to-god dancing mouse, a singer, a songwriter, a producer, and a judge. Lately, he was an actor. Not a busy actor right now, granted, but acting was what he wanted, and this would be a particularly short tale if he could just convince his manager, Eric, of the same.

Let's take a peek at how he's doing with that, shall we?

> "No, Eric," JC said. He was sitting in his music room, and this was about the third time that he had this same conversation. Or one close to it; he tended to forget the things that Eric said to him very quickly. "I don't –"
> 
> "I think we can get your album –"
> 
> "My album is dead, Eric." JC stood up and switched his stereo off. " _Kate_ is dead." 

Now before the reader of this tale can lift a hand to her or his mouth in dismay, wondering how tragedy can strike so early in this tale and have a supposedly young woman die before she even turned up, it needs to be said that _Kate_ was not, in fact, a young woman but the title of JC's new musical album. And that _Kate_ , for all intents and purposes, had been dead for a while.

There were a few insults traded then that we will not repeat here, until JC, in his frustration exclaimed,

> "Listen to me for a second, okay? Please. This is what I want." He paused and breathed. He needed to be calm for this, so Eric would understand, once and for all. "I want to act, and I want to produce. Nothing else. No music, all right? I'm not interested in the music anymore. I'm not _feeling_ the music anymore. And I don't fucking _care_ about it anymore. Got it?"
> 
> Eric didn't say anything, so JC repeated it. "Eric? You got it?"
> 
> "Fine," Eric eventually said. It sounded like he was gritting his teeth. "Fine. As you wish." And then he hung up. 

If JC had been a little more fluid in fairytale, he might have noticed that "As you wish" in this case by no means meant "I love you", but rather "Fuck you, and I hope you have fun dealing with the consequences." For Eric had a few surprises up his sleeve that normal human beings just... hadn't, and JC had just gotten himself cursed good and proper. But that he didn't know yet.

> JC woke up in the morning sneezing. It wouldn't be the first time that he got a cold from the a/c being set too low, but his throat didn't feel scratchy. Something was tickling his nose, causing him to sneeze again. He groped around on the nightstand for a tissue, which he didn't find. What he did find was dust.
> 
> He was pretty sure Marciella had been in here just yesterday, and she never forgot anything, so there was really no explanation for the layer of dust on everything – or why the dust was kinda... sparkly. Like someone had ground up one of JC's sequined shirts and spread it all over the place.
> 
> In fact, JC realized as he opened his eyes further, the whole bedroom was covered in it. Well, he figured, it couldn't be that bad to swing a feather duster himself for a change. 

Three weeks later, JC very much regretted thinking that. The dust got more and more, he caught Marciella muttering about _brujería_ while sprinkling the vacuum cleaner with a liquid from a flask that suspiciously looked like it contained holy water.

He checked the pollen count and the weather report, the local news. There was nothing, no mention of dust storms coming over from the Sahara or wherever, no illegal factories that blew dust into the air 24/7, no ash-spewing volcanoes lately.

He paid Marciella double. He got allergen filters for every room. He asked his neighbors if any of them had strange dust problems, too. They hadn't. On Marciella's day off – she came every day now – he refused to clean himself and then guiltily eyed the tracks the vacuum cleaner's wheels left in the dust the next morning.

In the middle of week two we have a funny little interlude in form of a phone call taking place between JC and one of his friends: former fellow singer and dancer, trained cosmonaut and currently dancing star Lance Bass. It went roughly like this:

> "Yeah?"
> 
> "Lance, heeey. It's me."
> 
> "I know, JC."
> 
> "So how are you? How's the dancing coming along? How's Stacey?"
> 
> "Lacey," Lance corrected. He was practicing, apparently, there was music in the background, although JC couldn't recognize what it was, 

A fact whose full significance he should only realize much later.

> and there was a woman counting beats out loud. "And she's mostly asking about how Justin is these days. I'm starting to think she likes him more than me." He'd raised his voice at the end, and the woman's voice skipped a beat to shout, "I love you, Lance! You know that."
> 
> "So why did you call?" Lance said when he came back on.
> 
> "Me?" JC was admittedly a bit startled by the question. He'd been trying to figure out if Lance was doing Tango or Cha-cha-cha, but he could just not quite place it.
> 
> "Yeah, C, you called. Half a minute ago."
> 
> "Right. My house is dusty."
> 
> "You called me because your – Wait, did your cleaning service fuck you over and you need me to threaten them for you? I can do that."
> 
> "No, they're doing fine," JC hastily said. He didn't want to see Marciella reduced to tears if he sicced Lance on her. "It's just – were there any meteor showers lately?"
> 
> "Don't think so, why?"
> 
> "Well, I don't know, it's just –" Here came the embarrassing part. "That dust stuff, I don't think it's from around here, you know. It's all glittery and stuff, so maybe it's some... alien space dust?"
> 
> JC squeezed his eyes closed at the inevitable booming laughter that followed. And followed. And followed. After a minute, when Lance yelled, still wheezing, "Lacey! I got something much better than gossip about Justin!" JC hung up. 

Now things might have gone on like this for a while, with JC's shower regularly clogging up with sparkly, sand-like dirt, and his tissue consumption skyrocketing despite an exorbitant use of Claritin. But things got more peculiar yet. For example, when Marciella attempted to trail her vacuum cleaner into the music room, she found herself intercepted.

> "Oh, hey, no, Marciella," Señor Chasez said. "You don't really need to clean that room. You do so much already."
> 
> "It's dusty," Marciella said, taking another step.
> 
> "That's okay. I barely use that room, I can't even remember the last time I was in it. Probably took a nap in it or something."
> 
> Marciella stared at him. "This room is important." She didn't understand it. Señor Chasez always wanted this room spotless, and he spent a lot of time in there. She couldn't count the times she'd opened the door and Señor Chasez had been in there, listening to music, completely oblivious that she'd come in. Once she'd even caught him... Well, best not to think about that or she'd still start blushing.
> 
> "It's fine, I swear," Señor Chasez said, and while Marciella didn't believe him, she didn't protest. All that strange dust in the house was freaking her out, and she was almost glad when he cancelled her service a couple of days later. 

The green-haired checkout girl – whose name was Kylie, but that isn't really important for this tale – in the corner store could report the following:

> That guy from NSync, JT, came in one evening and bought a box of cereal. As it happened, the moment he stepped to the counter was the same as _Girlfriend_ coming up over the speakers – an instrumental version. Relax-the-customer music.
> 
> "Oh, hey, they elevatored one of your songs," Kylie said and pushed her tongue through her lip ring. "Don't you hate that?"
> 
> "Huh?" JT said and then appeared to be listening closely. "I didn't notice."
> 
> Kylie nodded sympathetically – why, she wasn't even sure herself – and looked at the cereal box that JT had put on the counter. He must be one of those guys who never took the first box in the row – as that was surely the one countless other customers had already picked up and contemplated – but looked for one that hadn't been touched yet.
> 
> Well, this one had surely not been touched in quite a while, there was a thick layer of dust on top.
> 
> "Oh, this is old; let me get you a new one," Kylie said.
> 
> "No," JT said, and now _he_ was giving _her_ a sympathetic look that she couldn't interpret. "That's fine." 

But by far the strangest thing occurred when trained cosmonaut and currently dancing star Lance Bass, ridden by guilt at having laughed about JC and the following two weeks of stone-cold silence made another appearance. Let's accompany him on his quest to apologize.

> "Oh, holy fuck, JC!" 

This, by the way, was the scream Lance let loose upon finding JC lifeless on the floor covered in a mound of glitter as if his entire wardrobe had exploded in the hallway. And not just the hallway, Lance noticed once he'd made sure that JC was not dead and not high either – according to himself, which Lance took with a grain of salt. After all, JC was the one who – in another interesting tale – had once tried to convince Lance that the little pills he'd gotten from a guy in some club were just breath mints, not the obvious E.

Anyway, so Lance, after deciding that not apologizing and cuffing JC over the head instead made up for the shock JC had given him, Lance dragged him down the hallway, passing a glittering kitchen and a glittering living room, and a closed music room.

> JC stopped in front of it. "This is my music room."
> 
> "Yeah," Lance agreed. "C'mon, we –"
> 
> "I used to make music in there."
> 
> Lance didn't quite know what JC wanted to tell him with that, but he said, "Yes," anyway.
> 
> "Call me," JC said suddenly and added, "On your phone," when Lance made no move.
> 
> "JC, I'm standing right next –"
> 
> "Please," JC just said with those puppy dog eyes that Justin should never have taught him, so Lance caved.
> 
> JC's phone rang in his pocket, playing _Treat Me Right_ , complete with the handclaps, but JC didn't pick up.
> 
> Which would've been monumentally stupid anyway, so Lance didn't know why he'd sort of expected it.
> 
> JC went white as a sheet and ran to the bathroom. Lance sighed, ended the call and called Joey instead. He needed it. 

Lance Bass, apart from being a trained cosmonaut, an expert on alien space dust, and a dancing star, was also an awesome friend. Once JC came out of the bathroom, Lance dragged him over to his house, fed him chicken noodle soup, and tucked him into bed.

The outsider perspective thus taken care of, we move back to watch our handsome young man and see how he deals with the situation.

> JC woke up feeling like shit. Lance's clean sheets were already dusty, and watching MTV on the huge plasma TV that rose from its box at the foot of the bed made him want to cry.
> 
> There was music on it, one of the rare occasions these days, that Timberlake kid as it happened to be, but Justin was... flat. JC could hear Justin sing, and he heard the instruments, and he could pick out the rhythm, but together it just made no sense. Music usually made him _feel_ , made him happy, and giddy, and occasionally made him hard. This just didn't.
> 
> He was still moping – TV on just out of spite – when Lance came in and brought him a cup of coffee. Lance gave it to him with a cheerful rendition of _The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup_ , and JC nearly burst into tears. Lance sounded only marginally better than MTV did. 

Lance, in addition to all aforementioned qualities, was also like JC's own fairy godmother. Make of that pun what you will.

He puttered around JC, made sure he ate, and drank, and slept enough. What he couldn't do was get rid of the dust problem, though, and eventually he had to go be a dancing star again. Besides, the chicken noodle soup packets in Lance's kitchen cabinet were declining.

> "I'm just concerned, C. You were _unconscious_. What if it happens again and nobody's around?"
> 
> "I don't want to impose on you." Or on your ability to hook up with some hot boytoy, was what JC didn't say. Then he got an idea. "What's Chris doing?" 

Chris, we can reveal here, was not only the name of JC's new phone – and if you knew the other Chris, you knew where that name came from, as the phone was small and most of the time did the opposite of what JC wanted it to do. Chris was also the Prince Charming to JC's Cinderella, even if JC didn't like to admit that yet.

Chris, as it turned out, had wanted to visit anyway – yet still managed to make JC pay for the flight. He didn't care that JC hadn't dusted his house, or hadn't put fresh sheets on the guest bed, either. Or that he'd stopped buying groceries after a week of eating dust with his scrambled eggs. Instead Chris hugged him back when JC threw his arms around him, and he smelled nice.

He did not, however, believe JC's theory of being a dust magnet. Not even when he yanked the comforter off JC's bed and the sparkles flew up in a flurry before drifting slowly back down.

> "Huh. Now that's a bad case of dandruff if I've ever seen one," Chris commented.
> 
> JC hit him in the shoulder. "C'mon, man. Be serious."
> 
> "I am," Chris insisted and touched JC's arm, the inside of his elbow. "You're a bit pale, C." He rubbed his fingers lightly over the skin. "And you're all sparkly. Got a new body wash?"
> 
> JC jerked away. "Look, why did you even come here if you don't believe me? Why didn't you stay with Justin? Or Lance?"
> 
> "Well," Chris mused, dropping his hand. "I could say that I'm allergic to Jessica, or that I don't particularly want to listen to the Bass ass do the horizontal mambo all night. Which would all be true, by the way. But."
> 
> Chris didn't go on, so JC looked at him expectantly. "But?"
> 
> "Lance says you have a crush on me."
> 
> JC laughed nervously. "Lance also says that alien space dust doesn't exist, and would you look at _that_."
> 
> "Do you have a crush on me, JC?" Chris asked. 

This situation would've been very embarrassing for our handsome hero, if we hadn't left one little detail out so far: that Chris very much wanted to be the Prince Charming to JC's Cinderella. There was a bit of confusion when, for a second, it wasn't clear what exactly JC had on Chris: a crush, a surge of affection not unlike brotherly love, or just an unfair height advantage. That was quickly resolved, though, and in fact, as we skip back into the scene, they were already kissing.

> Chris' tongue in his mouth felt amazing, strong and powerful, and nothing like he'd expected. JC allowed himself to get lost in it, to worry about nothing but kissing back, feeling desire for the first time in what felt like forever.
> 
> Something soft and cool, like rain, brushed JC's cheek, and Chris pulled back, looking around them. They were standing in a circle of glittery dust, some of it still clinging to Chris' hair – and JC's own, he assumed – even to his eyelashes.
> 
> "Wow," Chris breathed. "Look at that. That's amazing, C. _You_ 're amazing." 

Now the tale could've ended here, right? Cinderella had his Prince Charming, and happily-ever-after was a likely prospect. Unfortunately, there was still the damn curse to think about. And the glitter wasn't even the worst part of that.

A fair warning to the reader here: The following paragraphs might upset the faint of heart, for they are very sad.

> Chris sat still while JC explained how he'd lost his music. How he hadn't even noticed it at first and when he had, it'd been like a piece of his heart had been ripped straight from his chest. Music had used to fill him with happiness, made the sun shine on a cloudy day, now when he thought about it, all it made him feel was empty and lonely inside.
> 
> He explained the flat sound of songs and how forgetting about his music room – and suddenly remembering what it was – had filled him with horror and grief, so much that he'd been sick.
> 
> Chris listened to it all, and then hugged JC tightly. 

Chris was a very practical Prince Charming, though, even more so after he found out how closely music and sex were connected for JC. The music room was JC's favorite place to jerk off, even. As JC's new boyfriend, Chris had a very high interest in keeping JC's sex life as healthy as possible.

So it was with Chris in the music room that JC came very close to figuring everything out right there.

> "Kinky," Chris commented as he switched the stereo on. JC heard the song coming on but couldn't make any sense of it. "Zapp & Roger's _Greatest Hits_. Though I'd thought you'd go more for _Computer Love_. _You really make me, you make me wanna scream. Make me wanna scream_ ," he sang.
> 
> JC froze. He'd been listening to that the last time he'd been in here. Listening to music and talking to Eric on the phone. Eric, who'd been angry at him. Eric, who'd commented on JC's not wanting to make music anymore with, "As you wish."
> 
> Eric.
> 
> Eric had cursed him . It was the only explanation; JC had said that he didn't feel the music anymore, so Eric had decided to teach JC a lesson and –
> 
> "Well," Chris said. "We're not having much luck here, apparently. Wanna do something else?"
> 
> Chris was looking at JC, and he was so close, so real, that JC nearly scoffed at himself. Eric _cursing_ him, what a stupid idea.
> 
> "Yeah," JC said slowly and reached for the waistband of Chris' pants." I know just the thing." 

The reader might be inclined at this point to yell at JC and tell him how stupid he was, but the truth was that it wouldn't have changed anything. Eric wasn't some Harry Potter wannabe, he knew what he was doing, and this was the kind of course that you couldn't take off, even if you wanted to, just break.

Luckily, in nine fairytales out of ten, there was a trick to do just that when the time was right.

In the meantime, Chris had fun with the dust.

> Two days after Chris had proved his amazing boyfriend skills by starting to bring JC sparkle-free coffee in a travel mug each morning – and all he expected in return was a lousy blowjob, which JC could so do – JC found him in the garden, firing up the grill.
> 
> "Oh," JC said, scratching his shower-damp hair. "We're barbecuing for breakfast?"
> 
> "Nah," Chris said. Now that JC had wandered closer, he could see that Chris was poking at a pile of dust in the grill with a spatula. "I'm just failing to make an explosion."
> 
> "Oh." JC blinked, then walked over and kissed Chris' temple. "Okay, then. When you're finished playing mad scientist, come inside. There's a poptart waiting for you."
> 
> The next day, Chris found out that the dust didn't taste anything like Pixy Stix and that repotting a cactus in dust just irritated JC. 

Having the amazing boyfriend/Prince Charming around also had some big disadvantages, though. JC shed even more glitter whenever he thought about Chris, and he really had to make an effort _not to think_ if he wanted to get any cleaning done at all.

JC wanted Chris to fuck him, but he feared it'd be like having sex on the beach, all gritty and sandy, and there were orifices in a man's body that just should not sparkle in every color of the rainbow.

Fortunately, amazing boyfriends had amazing ideas and since naughty minds out to be satisfied by this tale, too, we're tuning in on that idea briefly.

> JC had his hands splayed over the tiles, shivering despite the steam sill rising around them after Chris had cut the water off.
> 
> "Relax." Chris mouthed behind his ear, running soothing hands all over JC's body. JC hadn't done this in years, but he wanted it, and he groaned when Chris took his hands away, nearly missed the quiet snick of a bottle being opened. Then Chris pressed a finger in, soon followed by another, and Chris fucked him with them until JC started begging.
> 
> The floor of the shower was already glittering, sparkles swirling toward the drain, but the water kept them slick and clean, and when Chris finally pushed in, it was only a smooth glide, taking JC's breath away.
> 
> Chris was a genius, JC wanted to marry him and have little alien space babies if only it meant that Chris would fuck him every day.
> 
> He came when Chris touched his dick with a shout and a flutter of sparkles that he _felt_ busting from him, and Chris bit his shoulder and came, too.
> 
> Later, JC had to clean the clogged-up drain and that ball of black, curly pubic hair that came out of it was definitely not his! 

Apologies if that last part was not at all sexy, but the seriousness of the situation must be kept in mind. JC had still not gotten his music back, and Chris' latest attempt to find just one song that was so bad that JC hated it, even in his current state, and gradually get him accustomed to having feelings about music again, wasn't very successful.

> "What the hell is _that_?" JC frowned at the growling coming from the speakers of Chris' laptop.
> 
> "'The hell' would be about right," Chris said. "They're called _Goatwhore_. Death metal, all about the sex with Satan thing. Or about sex with goats, I don't know which is worse. You hate it yet?"
> 
> It was awful, that much was clear, but JC still couldn't bring himself to have any real emotion about it. He shuddered. "Please turn that off." 

Of course JC had other friends who wanted to help, particularly those who occasionally talked to Lance, too. Lance couldn't keep his big mouth shut.

Triple – or was it quadruple? JC never remembered – threat Justin Timberlake found some encouraging words and then sent a box of clothes from the new collection over. JC didn't know how this was supposed to help, but he caught Chris staring when he tried on a particularly tight shirt one evening, and then Chris proceeded to ravish him, so it was fine.

Sometimes-actor and family man Joey Fatone found even more encouraging words and family gossip and sent over a couple of Sesame Street records.

What an odd gift, the reader might think, but Chris knew exactly what to do with them.

> "Now this song," Chris said once he'd skipped enough tracks to find what he'd been looking for, "could totally be about us. There's Bert," he pointed at JC, "who can't carry a tune for shit, and there's Ernie, who's talented an teaches Bert _Doing the pigeon_."
> 
> " _Doing the pigeon_ ," JC echoed.
> 
> "Yeah. It's about Bert and Ernie, and Bert's favorite pigeon, whatever, not important. Ernie teaches Bert how to dance. C'mere."
> 
> They danced. Sort of. JC couldn't feel the music, but he could feel Chris behind him, guiding him with two hands on his hips.
> 
> He leaned back and let himself be led. It was nice. 

JC went to doctor after doctor, but since neither of them had any experience in witchcraft, they all gave him a clean bill of health and sent him home.

There was always a celebration when he came back from a doctor, always Chris waiting for him. Lately, however, Chris seemed less enthusiastic, like he'd finally caught on that JC's... condition might not end anytime soon.

JC was scared to death of losing him.

> One night, Chris put on an mp3 of Eric Dolphy's _Glad to Be Unhappy_ and pulled JC between his splayed legs.
> 
> "Just count the beats," Chris instructed. "We'll take it from there."
> 
> JC closed his eyes and listened. He listened to the quiet jazz piece and he listened to Chris' breathing, felt the movement of Chris' chest.
> 
> It took a while, but then he managed it, counted out the beat in his head, feeling his foot tap along.
> 
> "Switch to the bass," Chris said, and that was harder, but he got it eventually, then the flute, and the piano. He heard it all, but he couldn't put them together, couldn't find what made them music, not just noise.
> 
> But then he noticed that maybe he didn't _want_ to put them together. What if he'd had to give this to get Chris, and if he wanted the music back, he'd have to let Chris go?
> 
> "I love you," he said quietly.
> 
> This was what he wanted more than anything, more than music. Not producing, or acting, just this.
> 
> Chris. He wanted Chris. 

Unbeknownst to JC, he had just taken the first step toward breaking the curse: finding out where he'd been wrong.

The second was apparently watching porn in JC's bed, since that was where JC's big epiphany and the declaration of love had landed them.

> Chris was not that good at watching porn; he'd fallen asleep one blowjob and one lesbian strap-on scene in. It was nice, though; JC had his head on Chris' shoulder, the close proximity and the sex sounds coming from the TV making his mind wander.
> 
> The moaning was almost like a melody, dancing along; and he thought of the rhythm of Chris fucking him in the shower, every thrust like a beat while the water whispered lyrics around them.
> 
> Chris rolled toward him sleepily. "What're you hummin'?"
> 
> "I'm what? Huh?"
> 
> "You're humming," Chris repeated.
> 
> No, he wasn't. He – oh God. He was. He'd just been thinking about Chris, and fucking, and water, and there it'd been, right –
> 
> Where was his notebook; he needed to write this down. 

So, this is it. The tale of how our handsome young man, singer and songwriter, got cursed, found his Prince Charming, and in the end managed to get his groove back.

Lance continued to be a dancing star until he got voted off the show, Marciella took up work in the Chasez household again, and the green-haired girl from the corner store thought that JT's boyfriend was super cute.

And they lived happily ever after.

 

The end.

 

Oh, and the dust? Let's just hear JC's own theory about that.

> "I have a theory about my glitter," JC said. He was all fucked-out, content and happy to lie beside Chris, even if Chris was hogging all the blankets. "I think it was, like, all my unsung songs."
> 
> "Huh," Chris muttered.
> 
> "Yeah, like, every time I glittered, that was when I would've been singing. Or dancing, or dreaming about music. Or wanting you. And I did want you, and love you, but I couldn't really, not while a part of me was still missing."
> 
> Chris put a hand over his heart. "That. Is so sappy and sweet. You should write a song about it. Have Backstreet sing it."
> 
> " _Let me show you the shape of the missing chunk of my heart_ ," JC sang.
> 
> Chris groaned. "I'm in love with the sixth Backstreet Boy."
> 
> "Oh, c'mon. _You don't care who I am, where I'm from_ –"
> 
> Chris threw a pillow at him.
> 
> " _What I did_." JC dodged it., and Chris reluctantly joined in,
> 
> "– _as long as I love you_." 

 

The end.


End file.
